


Devour

by Maiden_of_Asgard



Category: Loki - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Dom Loki (Marvel), F/M, Jotunn Loki (Marvel), Married Couple Exploring Kinks, Married Sex, Outdoor Sex, Predator/Prey, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:41:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27063580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_Asgard/pseuds/Maiden_of_Asgard
Summary: Loki’s always joked about how easy it would’ve been to hunt you down and drag you back if you’d tried to escape during your earliest days on Jotunheim, and a hunting-trip to the remote reaches of the southern forests provides the perfect opportunity for the two of you to enact what has become a particularly enticing fantasy…
Relationships: Loki (Marvel)/Reader
Comments: 13
Kudos: 305
Collections: Flurries - The World of Frostbite





	Devour

You stretch your legs and sigh in relief as the muscles tense, then loosen. Riding horseback for hours at the time isn’t easy on the thighs. You’re happy to discover that the hunting-lodges that the giants of Jarnvidr described as ‘minuscule’ are not at all minuscule by human standards, though you are relieved that you don’t have to share space with anyone aside from the king, who doesn’t take up nearly as much space as the average Jötunn. 

You adore the rest of your friends here on Jotunheim, obviously, but being cramped in small spaces with them is one of the things you don’t particularly adore. They’re all legs and elbows, and Gjálp in particular has a tendency to roll onto the unsuspecting arm of anyone who happens to be sleeping beside her, even if said arm belongs to a squishy human. 

The hunting-lodges are small and wooden, and they’re sunk so deeply into the heavily-accumulating snow that from the outside, they’re hardly visible. Loki’s fur cloak has amassed a great deal of it, too, to the point that he almost looks like some sort of snowman when he slides down the inclined entrance to the half-buried hut. You can’t suppress a giggle. 

Loki throws back his hood with dramatic aplomb. “Do you find something amusing, wife?”

“Never.”

He shakes the snow from his furs, then surveys the small, single room. “When we speak of hunting-lodges on Asgard,” he says, “we typically refer to something more… grand.”

“We live in a palace. A few days of roughing it won’t be the end of the world. And look at me, getting the brazier lit all by myself. Aren’t you proud?”

“Always,” Loki says, and his expression takes a more devilish turn. “I  _ am _ in a mood for being rough, my darling.”

“That’s the spirit,” you reply, choosing to ignore the pointed leer directed at you - well, maybe you don’t  _ entirely _ ignore it; you do take a moment longer than necessary to unlace your boots, just to give him a nice view of your assets. Your riding-leathers hug every curve, and you know he’s enjoying the show. “Greip was telling me all about the forests around here.”

“Was she?”

“Mhmm. Did you know that the hunting-lodges out here were used as nests, back in ye olden times? She called them ‘nests,’ at least. Back before the Skógr-Jötnar had so many permanent settlements, mated couples would come burrow down and get cozy when they were expecting babies. It was supposed to be more safe and less stressful than the mobile camps.”

“I see. Is Greip attempting to make subtle hints that we should do the same?”

You laugh. “Norns, I doubt it. I just think it’s interesting. A lot of jötunn men get broody, apparently, which surprised me, considering how most of them don’t seem super involved after the baby is born.”

Loki sits down on the fur-covered pallet that serves as the bed, patting his knee. “Come and sit,” he says, and when you oblige, he nuzzles your cheek with his cold nose. It tickles, and you giggle. “It would not do.”

“Wouldn’t do?”

“For  _ our _ nest, of course. I will have our chambers absolutely filled with silken pillows from Alfheim, with candles on every shelf to keep them bright and cheerful.”

You shift in his lap, hoping to deal with the increasing pressure between your thighs without drawing his attention. It’s hopeless. He  _ knows _ that hearing him talk about how he’s going to put a baby in you someday gets you riled up. He knows you love it when he tells you what a treasure you are, how he’s looking forward to showering you with gifts and seeing all of Jotunheim share in your joy when you present the new prince or princess to the court.  _ Soon _ , you tell yourself.  _ Maybe we can start trying soon. _

Loki cradles you in his lap. It’s dark, aside from the slight glow peeking through the grates of the brazier. “You know what this reminds me of?” you ask. You clear your throat; your voice is dangerously rough, and it’s all because of  _ him _ and his insistence on making absolutely everything he does irresistibly sexy. 

“What’s that, dröttning-mín?”

“The cave. Remember how you held me? We’d just met. I distinctly remember you smelling my neck, too.”

He smiles, rueful. “My senses were trying to warn me of the dangers of holding a mortal temptress in my lap, I imagine.”

“Hey, it may seem funny now, but I was pretty sure you were going to kill me. Maybe even  _ eat _ me.”

“Were you?” His hand curls around your neck. “I did not realize what I was missing. I should’ve at least had a  _ taste _ . I hungered for so long.” Loki’s lashes lower as his gaze trails down to your lips, his thumb lightly pressing against the hollow of your throat. “A feast fit for a king.”

The fire in your blood pools, molten heat making the cold of his touch deliciously refreshing. “Funny how things change, isn’t it?” you reply, making every attempt to keep your desire hidden.

Loki takes a deep, long breath, releasing it in a sigh that verges on a moan.  _ Scent. Right. That’s a thing.  _ You glare at him, annoyed with how easily he can turn you on, and how easily he can  _ tell.  _ Though, to be fair, he could say the same about you. Your nostrils flare, though you hope he doesn’t notice.  _ Musky and spicy and something uniquely Loki that leaves a taste like warm honey in the back of your throat… _

You clear your throat. “Good thing I didn’t run away from you, then, isn’t it?”

He laughs. 

“What?”

“I assumed you were joking, my love,” Loki replies, his smile sharp and bordering on patronizing. “You and I both know that you never could’ve escaped me, and certainly not alone and on foot.”

You puff up. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yes.” He leans in for a kiss, which you dodge, and he laughs again. “Come, now; you cannot tell me that you believe otherwise, can you?”

Truthfully, you know he’s right; Loki Laufeyson could hunt down anyone and anything in the Nine Realms, wayward mortal companions included. If you’d been foolish enough to run out into the elements of Jotunheim back when he’d first found you in the cave, he would’ve had you right back in his clutches in thirty seconds flat, and if he hadn’t, you would’ve frozen to death. You know that he’s challenging you, though, and your eyes narrow. This little scenario has come up in a few conversations, but you’ve never had the opportunity to explore it; if the king were to hunt his queen through the streets of Utgard like some sort of hungry wolf, it might raise a few eyebrows.  _ Here _ , though, out in the snowy, vast forests…

“You’d never catch me,” you tell him, leaning closer, “and even if you did, I’d fight.”

Loki’s pupils dilate, the crimson rings of his irises nearly disappearing into the black, and a little shock of primal fear zips through your nerves.  _ Game on,  _ you think, wondering what you’ve gotten yourself into. Haven’t you spent the last few hours thinking about how nice it would be to curl up indoors and get some sleep? That’s clearly no longer on the menu.

He licks his lips, pausing for a moment to consider your expression, to check that he’s reading the moment correctly. “Flee,” he says, “and I will hunt you down, little mortal. Fight me, and I will punish you for it.”

“No magic? Just your skills as a hunter?”

“No magic.”

Tension builds. You consider your options. It’s cold out, sure, but running for all you’re worth will warm you up, right? And it isn’t like Loki will let you actually get lost for long enough to freeze. Besides, the sheer  _ arrogance _ of assuming that he’d manage to find you so easily rankles your pride, even if he’s right. You’re pretty crafty, and you’ve managed to survive every single threat you’ve encountered so far. It isn’t like you have no tricks up your own sleeves.

So, when you see that he’s no longer poised to strike, when he’s come to the decision that you were only teasing - that you aren’t  _ really _ up for any late-night hide-and-seek - you shove him away and spring for the door. He allows you a slight head start.

He’s  _ gentlemanly _ like that, your husband. 

You should’ve ignored spontaneity in favor of putting on your boots. Loki just has an irritating ability to make you impulsive. Your feet hate you, but you press onward, struggling through the fluffy, deep snow in hopes of using the forest for cover. He can be a complete ass when he wins at games, and you don’t intend to allow him the satisfaction. Even if the victory itself is inevitable, by God, you’re going to make him work for it.

_ “Run, run, little girl.” _

You nearly trip. The voice seems to come from the wind itself. 

Your pulse pounds behind your ears, an overwhelming thrum that drowns out the whistle of the wind around you.  _ The king is coming for me.  _ Even though it’s just a game, your adrenaline is flowing freely, and the danger feels real. The wind and falling snow will help to mask your scent-trail - you think - but it also greatly impedes your progress. He’s going to be able to see your footprints in the snow; he’s too close behind for you to try any tricky back-tracking, and you can’t stay still for very long to ponder your options, because your feet are freezing through your thick woolen socks. 

You slide down into a frozen creekbed; it’s narrow and slippery, but rivers help throw hunting-hounds off of their prey, right? It’s worth a shot. At least it won’t leave such obvious footprints. The rush from the primal urge of flight buoys you, pushing you to your limits. Breathing becomes ragged, and muscles scream in protest, but you’ve made it much further into the forest than you’d expected, and your instincts won’t allow you to even turn back to check whether or not he’s catching up.

You never see him coming.

He darts out from behind a dark spire of rock, nearly as blue as his own skin; he’s chosen to forgo any clothing aside from trousers and a cloak, and the effect of his sudden appearance is equally arousing and terrifying. His expression is positively feral. 

He slings you over his shoulder, unbothered by your flailing until you manage to kick him right in the groin. Loki snarls and drops you onto the ground. The snow cushions your fall, but the cold seeps through your layers of wool and fur as he wraps one large hand around your neck and presses you back. You tug at his wrist, and the urge to use magic is a powerful one - but you both promised that you  _ wouldn’t… _

He settles between your thighs, solid and heavy, and the urge to win overtakes any promises. Your grip on his wrists tightens, and you snarl back at him as you pour as much heat as you can into your palms. Steam fogs the air between you. “Enchantress,” he breathes. “You will regret your impudence.”

Your wrists are easily captured in one of his large hands; you expect him to bind you, but he doesn’t. He only needs his own body to keep you trapped, and your theatrical attempts to wiggle free seem to only entertain him more. 

“You crave subjugation.” He angles your head back, forcefully exposing your neck, and when his thumb presses into the fullness of your bottom lip, you try to bite him, receiving a swat on the cheek in reprimand. You gasp, and Loki’s fingers slip between your parted lips. “A firm hand.” Your teeth graze his skin, and he frowns. “Suck,” he says. “Do not bite me again, mortal.”

Your cheek stings, so you comply for a moment, just to give yourself time to brace for whatever he’s going to do when you bite him again - because you’re absolutely planning to bite him again. You can’t resist. 

Loki pulls his fingers from your mouth before you have the opportunity, though, bracing his other arm over your chest to keep you pinned while he wrests open your belt. “Hey, wait,” you whisper, breaking character, “don’t let my ass freeze off, okay?”

He chokes back a laugh, but he doesn’t pull your leathers down; instead, he works his hand inside them, and you wiggle and curse his still-cold fingers when he drives them into your tight heat. His smile is wolfish and wicked, and he licks your cheek as his fingers curl inside of you, searching for the sensitive spot that will make you see stars. You clench around his fingers, and he exhales sharply, his breath warm against your cheek. When he pulls his hand from your trousers and licks his slick fingers, an obscene, low growl rumbles in his chest. “Poor little mortal,” he croons, a mocking gleam in his eyes, “so desperate to escape, yet even more desperate to have your wanton cravings satiated.”

He seems to derive a great deal of pleasure from tasting you, as usual, and you worry for a moment that he might actually try to get you naked in the snow, because when Loki is in the mood to go down on you, he typically isn’t content until his face is buried between your thighs. 

“Taste,” he says, his slick fingers on your lips, now, and his eyes flutter closed when your tongue swirls around them, drawing them into your mouth. “Eager little thing.”

You bite him.

He doesn’t recoil. His thumb and ring finger clamp down on your jaw, squeezing until you’re forced to release him of your own accord. “A wretched, desperate attempt, mortal,” he hisses, and his hand moves back between your legs. “I should strip you bare, shouldn’t I?” His fingers move inside you, and while the snug fit of your trousers doesn’t allow for a wide range of movement, Loki makes the most of it. “Perhaps the ice against your skin would make you more appreciative of the mercies I allow—” He grunts when your forehead smacks against his chin, though you’re sure it’s only from surprise. You’re the one seeing stars. His chin must be made of steel. 

“Well, ouch,” you mutter, and you think you see your husband - who is a  _ much _ better actor than you - nearly choking to smother a laugh as he throws you over onto your stomach. 

“Beg for mercy,” he says, his voice stern, and maybe you’d consider it, but you’ve got a mouthful of snow. His arm curves around your waist, drawing you to your knees, and with him supporting you, you’re able to clutch onto his arm instead of keeping your hands buried in the snow. The heavy cloak on his shoulders drapes over the both of you, shielding you from some of the cold and wind.

“I never beg,” you reply, even as you shiver with anticipation as Loki yanks down your trousers and frees himself from his own snug leathers.  _ “Oh.”  _ He’s buried deep inside of you, clutching you to his chest as he takes you from behind, rutting in the snow like wild animals. The cold burns your knees, but the longer Loki envelops you in his embrace, the warmer the rest of your body becomes; it’s a fair trade, as far as you’re concerned. “Loki—“

He squeezes your neck, and you whine; you want to feel his skin against yours, but you aren’t going to beg for him to take you back to the lodge. Leather and metal bites into your hips with every thrust, and Loki is like a man possessed, chasing his own pleasure. Somehow, that makes it all the more thrilling. “Now that I’ve had a taste,” he tells you, “I’m going to have you beneath me every night, little enchantress.” His hips snap forward, and you both nearly lose your balance. “I will drag you back to my lair to warm my bed, and there will I devour you at my leisure.”

_ Silver-tongue.  _ You can almost picture the look in his eyes; you know, without even a shadow of a doubt, that he’s still thinking about making a cozy, hidden little nest and keeping you in it until you’re carrying the next royal heir. Your knees are frozen, yet you feel as if you’re about to melt right into the frozen, rocky ground. Maybe you’ll drag him down with you. 

“You’ll come for me,” he says. 

“No.”

“Yes.” His teeth close on your neck, and the mate-bond sends sharp spikes of pleasure sinking through your body and blood. “Come, mortal. I want to feel you tremble. Come  _ undone _ .”

A dry sob tears from your throat; the bastard is using  _ magic _ . He’s still got his arms wrapped around you, strong and solid, but it feels like he’s stroking you beneath your clothes, skin on skin. “Loki, you  _ cheat _ .”

Loki doesn’t seem contrite. The phantom sensation of his fingertips slides between your legs. “Come,” he demands, “for  _ me _ .  _ Come _ , dröttning.”

You bite your lip to muffle your cry of relief when you tumble over the edge of the precipice; even so far away from any of the other lodges, you’re mindful of the sharpness of jötunn ears. You reach back to cling to a fistful of his hair, trying to somehow twist him into a position that will allow for more kissing. “Kiss,” you demand, figuring that he’s already given up on the whole ‘hunter-prey’ game, considering he just called you his queen. “Kiss me.”

You crane your neck enough for your lips to meet his, and he’s kissing you when he finishes inside you, a flood of warmth that’s striking against the frigid chill of the air and his cool, blue skin. His kiss is bruising, at first, and hungry; you taste yourself on his tongue, and he holds you so tightly that you fear you might both shatter. His trembling stills, and he rests his forehead in the crook of your neck, panting. 

You feel incredible - but also really, really cold, and now that you aren’t getting some, the cold is making a terrible nuisance of itself. Loki notices, and he rights your clothing, his fingers fumbling more than usual. He rolls onto his back, his body a barrier between you and the snow, then lets out a sleepy sigh that makes you worry he plans to fall asleep right then and there. 

“Carry me back to the lodge?”

Loki yawns. “Carry  _ me _ back to the lodge,” he replies, wiggling his toes. “Norns, you have drained the life from me. My legs are numb.”

“Don’t blame me, Your Majesty. You’re the one who decided to come outside without real clothes.”

“More clothing would’ve only gotten in the way,” Loki says, pressing his cold nose into the crook of your neck. “Besides, sinking into the heat of you is all the more blissful when I am cold.”

“It does feel… interesting. The, um, the contrast in temperature.”

“You burned me,” he says. “Or, you tried to, at least. Shame, shame. We agreed on no magic.”

“You used magic!”

Loki snickers and kisses your neck. “I am the God of Not Following the Rules, darling. Isn’t that what you’ve said? You should’ve expected it, really. And,” he adds, “I have the proof that you  _ enjoyed _ my magic positively soaking my leather—”

“Lodge,” you interrupt. “We better get back, before one of the patrols finds us. That would be… Well, it would be super embarrassing. Especially after getting caught on the balcony last month.”

Loki relents and staggers to his feet, holding you close, his cloak wrapped around the both of you. “If a king cannot have his queen while overlooking his capital city,” he says, “then there is really no point in being king at all, is there?”

“Yeah, okay, but the Asgardians were visiting, so…”

He grins, supremely smug at the memory. “Don’t pretend that you didn’t wear that lovely gown specifically to tempt me into lascivious thoughts. I know your wicked ways, wife.”

“I have a super wicked request for tonight, too.”

“Oh? I cannot wait to hear it.”

“Can you make the lodge warm enough that we can sleep naked? Maybe? I just feel like it’d go really well with the whole ‘getting hauled back to your lair’ vibe.”

“You’re enjoying that, are you?”

“Yeah,” you tell him, and you lean up to kiss his cheek. “And maybe sometime soon, I can hunt you down and drag you back to  _ my _ lair. I am an evil enchantress, after all.”

Adoration and amusement light up his eyes. “I will look forward to it,” he says. 


End file.
